


Calm before the Storm

by Berenos



Series: Updating the Arrangement [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bat-betaed, Betaed, Crowley makes people wonder, Don't copy to another site, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Feels, Fluff, Found Family, God does what they want, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Multi, Narrator God (Good Omens), Now With More Plot, Queer Themes, Set in the 90s, Unreliable Narrator, What-If, late 80s, people guessing someone's gender, set in the 80s, then the 90s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-07-30 11:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20096338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berenos/pseuds/Berenos
Summary: Those 11 years of wondering if it will Armageddon or Armageddon't with a child in tow.Still betaed by the terrificBatrael!





	1. Gamble

In the past, if you had asked any of the visitors of A.Z. Fell and Co. about its owner, you would have gotten variations of the same three statements; one, that he was English, two, that he was intelligent, and three, that he was gay. Depending on how their particular interactions with the blonde man had went, you could also get a fussy, kind, naïve or stubborn thrown in, but the first three were the uncontested Three Truths.

The apparition of a baby overnight, however, challenged the Third Truth, and was the source of a bet that had grown to unsuspecting proportions and which had, in fact, been running for three years straight. Those who remained loyal to their belief that Mr. Fell was as queer as they come would wager boring things along the lines of “relative’s unwanted baby”, but there had been a few brave souls that mussed about “experimentation” and “curiosity” regarding the opposite sex. Then there were the more outlandish ones; adoption by kidnapping, changeling, _aliens_. After one too many pints, someone had even suggested that Mr. Fell’s pinkie toe had fallen off and grown into the newborn, like starfish did. Another, that he had laid an egg like a chicken.

Strangely enough, nobody could quite recall who had made those.

What you need to understand is that A.Z. Fell and Co.’s regulars were a particular bunch, determined to have access to the books within even if it meant enduring bad odors and feeling random bursts of impending doom when inside the shop. On top of that, the unprecedented – for them, at least – long weeks of steadfast closed time that came before the young one’s arrival had only fanned the flames of their curiosity. Hours of watch duty had been killed by theorizing about the place and its owner, whether it was a front for something shady or if he was some sort of run-down nobleman. He was a cultured man, after all, but strangely removed from everyday concerns, did travel a lot for work – or so he claimed –, and always refused to part with any of his books, despite his establishment being a bookshop. The regulars had learnt long ago to treat the place as a library with a no-lending policy.

And then, one bright, cloudless morning, the sign had finally been flipped to “open”, and people wasted no time to peruse their tomes of choice while Mr. Fell was absorbed with something or other at the counter; a most unusual behavior, since he always made sure to look over people’s shoulders when handling his wares, but instead of ringing any alarm bells most assumed that he had found something new in those mysterious weeks, and left it at that.

Until, that is, the library-silence that reigned in the cramped shop was broken with a newborn’s wail, making start more than one. People started to glance at each other overtly, seeking the poor, innocent soul that had dared to disturb the finicky owner’s peace and quiet with their spawn. Already anticipating an early closing, many took note of the page they were in and the exact place the book was to revisit at a later time. Nobody expected the scrambling, rushed steps that came from upstairs but, above it all, what absolutely nobody present would have predicted was for Mr. Fell to shout a hesitant “Do you need a hand, my dear?” as he glanced upwards.

“I got it!” was the somewhat muffled reply.

Since the man seemed perfectly aware of the baby that had for some unfathomable reason taken residence in his property, said baby was being watched over by a mysterious “my dear”, and those somehow defied many of the preconceptions the regulars had made about him, many if not all felt entitled to direct an askance glance at the bookseller, as if they would find the answers they sought written on his face. They didn’t find any, but what they did was make him flush when he noticed the looks, and the visibly flustered man gave them a timid, fleeting smile before he disappeared behind the covers of his book, propped in a way that hid everything but his fluffy hair.

Naturally, the rumor mill went wild from that point onwards, especially when “my dear” turned out to be a peculiar, sunglasses-wearing redhead nobody was able to pin a gender to that apparently had free reign all over the business and the flat above it.

That was the start of a second bet that quickly became a subset of the first one out of convenience; whether Mr. Fell’s friend was man or a woman and their possible relationship – it would become a hot topic during bookstore-watching for weeks. Some would point out that “the man had no chest to speak of”, but it would be quickly rebutted with a “well, no _man_ can fit into those skinny jeans and lounge like _that_, either”. The fact that they weren’t exactly touchy-feely but somehow managed to ooze domesticity with each other didn’t help dissipate the mystery, and it didn’t seem like it would be settled anywhere in the near future.

Eventually, of course, something had to give. Weeks upon weeks of hearing people gossip about the elephant in the room without ever asking the parties involved or letting the matter die would drive one mad. Fed up with the whole thing, one of the regulars set themselves to get at least enough information to shut up some mouths.

“Hello, Mr. Fell!” greeted Lucien cheerily. They worked part time at Madame JoJo’s, and had discovered the place completely by accident, after mixing it up with the adult bookshop next door. Aside from a bizarre collection of misprinted bibles and obscure, spiritual tomes, the place boasted a nice collection of queer-related topics that you wouldn’t find anywhere else. “Good evening, dear.” He replied kindly, and continued with a reluctant and perfunctory but polite nonetheless “Anything I can help you with today?”

Lucien didn’t take it personally, because Mr. Fell was always the same when he suspected someone might be after one of his books – that was why they kept coming back to the place, the man treated everyone the same no matter who they were or where they came from.

“Oh, well, I just wanted to know how you were settling in with the little one. You know. Big change.” Immediately, the man lit up, positively beaming – whether it was because Lucien wasn’t asking about a potential purchase or the topic itself remained to be seen. “O-oh, thank you for asking. We’re learning, but having Ariel around is a delight.”

Noting the use of plural, Lucien felt safe enough to press a little bit further. “And how’s the wife?” They asked tentatively. “No complications after the delivery?”

The man’s face went strangely blank, and for a moment Lucien feared they had messed up, that something had indeed gone wrong or perhaps the redhead wasn’t a _wife_ after all, until red started to creep in and the bookseller became visibly flustered.

“W-wife?” Mr. Fell asked, as if surprised. He then repeated it slower, full of wonder. “Wife.” Then off he was on a trip to la-la-land with a growing, fond smile, until he snapped back to reality when he saw that Lucien was still waiting for a reply – it was obvious the man was smitten, so they had to suppress an amused smirk. “Yes. Marriage. Of course. Wife.” He grappled for words as he squirmed in place, until he settled for a “We’re fine. Absolutely tickety-boo.”

Mission accomplished and feeling quite a bit sorry for him, Lucien bid their goodbyes; they couldn’t wait to tell the others and finally, _finally_, be able to enjoy some intelligent conversation next watch duty.

As it would turn out, their efforts were in vain, because nobody believed a thing, and life went on just like it had, with bets unsettled and tongues still waging. Even when, months later, the redhead sauntered down the shop and, in a display of unprecedented interest, encroached in Mr. Fell’s space to whisper what had to be the hottest c’mon ever, if the blonde’s immediate discomposure was any indication. Lucien tried to make subtle “You see??” gestures at the others, but they were lost with Mr. Fell’s hasty announcement that the place was closed.

Whatever the case, Fell & Co’s regulars were thrilled because Ariel’s presence meant two things; one, that Mr. Fell was too busy to figuratively breathe over their shoulder, and two, that the pipes must have been fixed _at last_ because there were no more bad odors haunting the shop.


	2. Change

Summertime found the two supernatural entities finally at ease with their new reality of surrogate parenthood, almost three years after that eventful night when the Beginning of the End’s clock started ticking. Since nobody from Upstairs or Downstairs had come knocking at their door, they had slowly eased themselves off of the strict no-miracle policy – although each of them had sneaked in a few ones here and there previously, to avoid the most unpleasant parts of childrearing. Ariel’s growth from an angry red-faced armful of wrinkles to a walking catastrophe waiting to happen, and then most recently to a curious kid with endless questions, went by in the blink of an eye or, at least, it seemed so for the two parents.

The time to influence the Antichrist towards the perfect balance between good and evil was fast approaching and, with that, came a new problem neither of them had fully anticipated: what to do with their daughter while they went incognito amongst the Dowlings’ staff.

“I think some kids start school about her age.” Offered Crowley nonchalantly, reclining further on top of the nauseatingly rustic kitchen table until his upper back hit the wall, which garnered him a disapproving look from Aziraphale. “What?” he asked innocently, even though he knew exactly what the other disapproved off.

If the demon were to be honest with himself, he was a bit… annoyed, with the whole thing. He’d want nothing more than to take the goblin along with them, but the Antichrist was an unknown he was not willing to risk – and neither was the angel.

It was that magical hour when the redhead still didn’t feel like taking a nap yet but Ariel was fast asleep in her room, reserved for serious discussions if needed but usually consisting on light venting over good wine to avoid young ears picking up foul language – in Aziraphale’s case – or passive-aggressive retribution if a four letter word happened to make an appearance once or twice – in Crowley’s case. This trend had been going on ever since Ariel had, just shy of 13 months, started chanting “shit” unprompted, wiggling on her butt delightedly while shacking a tambourine. The antiquarian had been absolutely mortified, ears going instantly red when he heard the muffled laughs of the various people mingling in his shop, and had had to excuse himself to regain his composure and later distract the toddler so she’d stop repeating the unbecoming word.

Crowley had been on a strict supervision when interacting with her for weeks after that, because she certainly hadn’t picked it up from Aziraphale.

“Ah, school does sounds exciting.” Conceded the angel, once he sat down by the demon’s side – on a proper chair, unlike someone.

The book-obsessed entity was unsure how schooling went for children, but he recalled spending days in many a University library fondly – the Renaissance had truly been a breath of fresh air, much needed after the whole Alexandria fiasco. He was sure Ariel would enjoy having more adults to ask questions, at the very least, and perhaps she would even manage to make some friends.

They had an abysmal record of ill at ease parents pulling away their children once they set eyes on the two of them, when they took Ariel to the park – it was as if they could sense, on a primitive, fundamental level, that they weren’t human. Crowley insisted that that wasn’t the issue but, really, what else could it be? They were model parents in every aspect, and Ariel was a perfectly normal child, if a bit quiet. They had to be feeling something, there was no other explanation for the fear in their faces, truly.

“I’m not sure how we’d manage to escort her back and forth… One of us could probably sneak off for a bit if needed, but I’m not exactly comfortable leaving her alone for so long.” Aziraphale said tentatively, his brows furrowed deep in thought. Tanned fingers started to fiddle with a golden band, until a paler palm settled on top of them reassuringly; warmth blossomed at the contact, and the angel couldn’t help but look at their hands, transfixed.

“So, we hire someone.” Suggested the demon.

Blue eyes sought yellow ones, surprised, but the redhead kept studiously ignoring Aziraphale’s searching gaze, using a curtain of red hair as a shield; a minute tighter grip betrayed that fake casualness, however, and to the angel it felt almost like a question. As much as it pained him, the Principality slid reluctantly out of the hold, taking a moment to pat the other’s arm before retreating to his customary folded hands.

The demon grabbed his glass and drained it in one gulp. Aziraphale was momentarily entranced by the long fingers that curled around the glass stem, until reality crashed down on him. “Thank you, my dear.” He acknowledged at last, with a tight smile, but it fell a bit when he finally noticed the other’s sullen look. “Oh, cheer up. I’m sure things will go smoothly.” He told him.

“I only hope Ariel takes to it well; the poor dear has never been without one of us.” trailed off the angel with the lighter voice someone worried forced when they didn’t want to let in that they were worried.

“She’s a tough one, angel, she’ll be fine.”

With a game plan somewhat in the works, their conversation branched out to their usual wine-fueled ramblings, and Aziraphale’s heart clenched painfully when it dawned on him that the demon had forgone his customary sleeping habits to keep him company all night long.

* * *

The following morning, when the sun had risen what he deemed a suitable amount, Aziraphale started the new day by puttering around the kitchen, once he had shooed away the giant snake that dozed in front of the stove and told him to wake up their daughter. He hummed under his breath as he double checked a well-loved second hand cookbook, making sure he had all the steps in mind and had ingredients ready before he started with the batter. Such life-altering news would be better received on a full stomach, and he knew just the thing.

The angel had taken in onto himself to learn how to cook at last once it was time to introduce Ariel to proper food, when the pre-prepared meals had proven to be a disaster – not that the angel blamed her, because he had tasted the mush to see what the fuss was about, and it had been an awful experience; he wasn’t sure how someone could have managed to boil away all the flavor it was supposed to have without demonic intervention.

A fire roared merrily in the kitchen’s cast iron stove; an ancient thing that had been around at least ever since Aziraphale had purchased the property. It hadn’t suffered much changes in the years that followed, and while it would have needed a constant wood supply and a sharp eye under normal circumstances, the angel had simply placed two logs inside its chamber the first time he had used it to prepare tea, and that had been it. The fact that the oven was always “on” made the kitchen one Crowley’s favorite places to be, and he could be found in front of it whenever he had nothing better to do, in the event that there were no sunrays to be enjoyed anywhere else in the flat – which was, sadly, most of the time. The angel had quickly gotten used to watching where he stepped on, after tripping over a coiled serpent one too many times.

After a few minutes, Aziraphale paused what he was doing and strained to listen, but he failed to hear shuffling steps or any sort of noise that would indicate a young child actually getting out of bed.

“Oh, really.” He huffed as he took off his apron, hanged it onto the wing shaped hook behind the door and then marched towards what had been intended to be an office but he had used as an extra storage room for the longest time, then had later become a nursery to be upgraded, most recently, to a proper, grown up child's bedroom. As he suspected, the room was still bathed in total darkness, and not a peep came from within.

The angel tutted reproachfully at the lump under the quilts. “Really dears, today’s going to be a splendid day, and you are missing it.” When it failed to move, he knew more drastic measures were needed. As silently as he could, Aziraphale took a hold of the quilt, then pulled on it as he bellowed “Up, up!”, to uncover a mass of dark scales coiled around the form of a young little girl – and both shrieked at the top of their lungs at the sudden cold.

“Good morning, poppet! Please go wash, breakfast will be ready in a shake.” he told her genially, not sparing a glance at the still spluttering serpent until the child was gone. “Oh, do not give me that, you fiend, I told you to wake her up, not join her.”

Crowley slithered out of the bed, shaking his head scornfully at the angel. “Could at leasst give me a few more minutess, angel, ssince we won’t be around as much anymore.” He hissed, and punctuated his tirade with a sharp flick of his tongue.

“What?” Aziraphale reeled back at the accusation, but then whispered harshly “You don’t get to hog her, you covetous serpent! _I_ will be gone too! It is only fair if both of us share what little time is left.”

Once they were all seated – with varying degrees of propriety – at the kitchen table and breakfast had been served, both parents exchanged a meaningful glance. The demon lifted an eyebrow and nodded at an oblivious Ariel, but both did a double take because her blond curls were perilously close to taking a dive into the whipped cream of her crêpes. The redhead scrambled to take a hold of them before they dipped in, tying them in an artful chignon. Ariel continued polishing her plate, unperturbed by the turn of events; even if they had gotten dirty, it wasn’t like it would stay that way for long.

Crisis averted, Aziraphale fidgeted a bit; the well-worded, simple speech he had prepared the previous night had fled, leaving key but disorganized points floating chaotically around. “Erhm. Poppet- Ariel.” Blue eyes fixed on him curiously. “You see. We-your mother and I – we have. Things are going to change. But! We love you very much, do not ever doubt that.” Ariel nodded at each statement, eagerly waiting for him to get to the point, but when he failed to actually say what it was, she tried to guess.

“Am I getting a sibling?” she ventured hesitantly.

She knew those were a thing. People – older women more often than not – questioned her father about giving her one when they mentioned how much bigger she was. Ariel did not know what her growth had to do with babies, but she supposed it was one of those facts that would make sense when she was all grown up. And just a little while ago she had gotten a bed all of her own, so.

Perhaps it _was_ a sibling.

Aziraphale spluttered even more, doing complex gestures with his hands not even he knew what they meant.

“Ugh, for Hell’s sake, angel, leave it to me.” Complained the demon quietly. “First things first: no sibling. No siblings whatsoever. Capisce?” the girl nodded hesitantly, relieved and disappointed all at once. Siblings sounded fun, but she wasn’t sure if you could return them if they weren’t, like you could with other stuff.

“What your father has failed to say is that we’ve got an assignment.” Ariel’s face brightened with understanding; she knew about those. Her parents got assignments from time to time, which meant one of them would be away for a bit and then come back or, if she had been on her best behavior – a somewhat loose term, as what counted as “best behavior” depended entirely on which one of her parents was involved, and was a source of much debate if both happened to be – she would even get to travel with them.

“But. This assignment is a bit different.” He remarked, and Ariel considered it with a head tilt, puzzled. “How?”

“You see…” Crowley struggled for an acceptable explanation, and regretted having left the angel to it the previous night. “Your dad here is going to save the world.” He blurted out at last, and Aziraphale, who had until that point limited himself to nod support, gave him an alarmed look. “I am? I mean yes, of course, of course I am.” he agreed after the redhead elbowed him sharply. Oblivious to that exchange, their daughter let out an appropriately awed “ooh”.

Bolstered by how well his little fib was going, Crowley rolled with it. “And, since saving the world is going to be very, very hard, I’ll need to tag along to help.” Both waited with abated breath for the little cogs on her brain to start turning. “And me? Can I help too?” She asked at last.

The redhead gave her a jerky nod, then another to buy time; he knew he was threading on thin ice. “Yess, yes, you can help… by watching over our castle.” An all-encompassing, wide gesture accompanied the statement, but the demon deflated when it failed to enthuse the child and she let out a disappointed hum instead.

Still, he had to try, if only to stop the waterworks the demon could already scent in the air. “No, really, think about it, goblin. All your father’s books. Your toys. Imagine what would happen if someone sneaked in while we were away!”

Round, blue eyes kept gathering water, which made Crowley all the more desperate.

“And. You don’t know the best part. The best part is, you’re going to get someone new to pester-“ Sensing an oncoming disaster, Aziraphale stepped in. “What he means is that we’re going to look for someone who can keep you company while you watch over our home, poppet. I’d be so, so grateful if you could keep an eye on the books while we’re away.” he said gently. “And we’ll still be here for your bedtime story, to tuck you in… Alright?” Ariel nodded, uncertain.

A sibling would have been better.

She was abruptly lifted up and deposited on bony legs, and she squeezed the suddenly available torso with all her might. The tears that had been gathering in her eyes started to fall, fat and warm. “Hey. I know change is scary, but we’re still going to be here for you, goblin.”

“That’s right. And don’t forget that we love you. So, so much.” Her dad smiled tenderly at her, and Ariel sent him a pleading gaze. For his part, the angel dithered just enough to be able to say that he hesitated before turning it into a group hug, and the contact made Crowley tense.

“Ngk”


	3. Luck

As it turned out, actually hiring a nanny of their own was ironically harder than either entity could have ever expected.

After careful consideration, Aziraphale redacted a “nursemaid wanted” notice and switched it with his opening hours schedule, then miraculously published an advertising in every local newspaper. The first blunder, of course, came with the fact that the English language had changed again without his notice; nursemaids had not been considered childminders since Edwardian times, and so the few people that showed cautious interest in the post had thought it would be to take care of an infirm.

The second notice didn’t even make it past the draft stage, despite the use of the more contemporary term “nanny”; Crowley had just taken the barest of glances at it before the paper was set on fire. Apparently, Aziraphale’s efforts to offer as much information as possible to avoid any further misunderstandings ended up backfiring, making up a “convoluted, hard-to-follow string of useless babble”. Even if he could see the issue afterwards, the rude description stung, so the following days consisted on the angel pointedly ignoring the demon whenever their daughter wasn’t in the immediate vicinity.

Fed up with the cold shoulder, and after giving it a bit of thought – or a lot, but nobody needed to know –, Crowley rewrote a much simpler notice based off of that dreadful draft, and made sure to include everything the fussy angel had considered essential along with his own little contributions; everything was forgiven in the end, even if no one actually said it out loud. This version got the same treatment as the first, and the two supernatural entities were hopeful someone suitable would turn up eventually.

However, an unprecedented string of inconveniences prevented possible applicants from remembering to make the call to inquire about details or actually entering the shop for days; relatives insisted on keeping distractingly long conversations over the phone, there were short power outages or too many errands to do, beverages spilled on erstwhile impeccable clothes, heels snapped, and the few that managed to make it to an interview despite these adverse conditions suddenly weren’t interested in the job anymore.

“I simply don’t understand it, my dear. This has never happened to me before.” Bemoaned a very frustrated Aziraphale as both he and Crowley watched yet another potential employee go: young Helen was the fourth person to be interviewed successfully, and the angel would have been over the moon to settle with her – very human, she was, neither too strict or too lenient, just what they had needed. True to form, however, and no matter how determined Aziraphale was to nudge the woman into it with his angelic influences, when the time came to iron out hiring details her attitude changed completely, and she couldn’t get out of the bookshop fast enough.

At his side, the demon cackled unabashedly, and he sent him a displeased look. Seemingly unable to resist his nature, the black-clad demon told him rather playfully “Perhaps you’re not as young as you once were, angel.”

Aziraphale stared at him blankly, uncomprehending the quip, until its double meaning registered. “Oh, for the love of- _Crowley_! Now is not the time for that. What are we going to do?” He chided the other as he made his way to the backroom, where he scratched another name off his scrupulous “Potential nannies” list with a huff; there were no more names left unscratched.

The part of him that was always watching out for their daughter noted Ariel’s high pitched, happy hums, carried on by the old ventilation system – the structure’s little quirk had been a great discovery, and it enabled keeping an eye on things without being overbearing.

At least she was unaware of their troubles, the angel mused.

The demon trailing after the cherubic entity shrugged, not worried in the least. Truth be told, Crowley would be worried if things went swimmingly the first time, because that meant the other shoe had yet to drop. He was well used to the Universe going out of its way to inconvenience him; doors didn’t budge when he tried to open them the first time no matter if he pulled or pushed, cassettes needed a miracle to rewind because the tape had gone to shit… his own demonic activity turned on him more often than not, much to his chagrin. Not even Aziraphale was a safe bet, as he always had to insist a couple of times before the angel gave in to his own brilliant ideas.

No, things would settle _eventually_, they only needed to persevere in the meantime. And bury any traces of undeserved guilt deep, deep down.

“We wait.” He finally answered, once he had settled comfortably in his seat. “If anything, we can always raise the pay again. Someone will bite, sooner or later.”

“But we do not have _time_!” Aziraphale objected lowly, walking over to him. “We only have nine more years before the End begins, and every single day counts.” He stressed vehemently.

They stared tersely at one another for a few moments, until the angel gestured pointedly with his head for the other to scoot and make some room. As soon as he could, he sat down as heavily as his manners let him – which still wasn’t much, but the spirit was there, nonetheless.

Silence fell over them both after that, thick and oppressive, until he turned to look inquisitively at the demon. “What about Lucien? Do you think they would be amenable to look after Ariel for a few hours?” His whole being lit up with hope. “I would feel so much better if it were someone we know, at least in the beginning.” He considered with a relieved smile.

Crowley made a face, because he had already thought of that and had, in fact, tried to contact them first thing after they had agreed to hire someone. He had dropped by the club after countless calls went unanswered, where he was told the rather bothersome news – he had made sure to leave a message for the next time Lucien called, but they weren’t an option, at least for the foreseeable future.

“Eh, tailor’s busy with something or other, not even in the country anymore. Some hush-hush fashion show. Italy. France…” The demon trailed off with a shrug, then grunted “Whatever.”

Aziraphale’s mood plummeted again, and Crowley was ready to make a nuisance of himself to provide a distraction when he noticed how pensive the angel was. It gave him pause, the subtle furrow of brows, the absent gaze. The well-kept hands that, once they were left to their own devices, started to caress a golden and silver band.

Something the demon refused to name crawled up his spine at the sight, winding around his heart and squeezing it, making the bothersome muscle skip a few beats only for it to start beating faster.

“Listen, I…” The plump angel hesitated, stormy eyes fixated firmly before him – despite himself, just like always, he couldn’t resist throwing quick glances at the entity by his left side; he was staring at him, immobile and unblinking, with a familiar focus that still managed to fluster him despite the years of exposure. Even if all that attention was a tad unnerving, he soldiered on. “I must confess... I haven’t been entirely honest with you.” Crowley jerked in his seat at his admission, and he could feel a shameful blush creeping up down his cheeks and up his ears. He breathed in deeply to let it loose, but the guilt remained anchored to his gut just the same. “I have a, a network. Of human agents.”

“You do?” The demon asked in surprise – the lack of accusation in his voice was a relief, and it bolstered his confidence. “Highly trained agents, very committed to their duty.” The angel confided, nodding to himself; it was an apt description of Shadwell’s self-sacrificing people, as he had been assured on multiple occasions. “I’m sure quite sure a few of them must have children of their own in the area. Perhaps one of them wouldn’t mind looking after Ariel for a bit.” He ended with a hopeful lift of eyebrows, silently asking for the other’s thoughts.

Crowley turned away, scratching at his neck, but gave him a sidelong glance. “I actually have something similar,” He replied casually. “Human operatives.” The ethereal entity had to do his best not to gape and keep firmly away the myriad of thoughts the fact that the demon was willing to share such information sparked. Unaware of the chaos he had sowed in the other’s mind, his occult counterpart went on. “But they aren’t exactly _child-friendly_.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, considering. “Perhaps… mine aren’t exactly up to the task, either. It would be unfair of me, to ask them to look after a child when they have greater things to do.” He sighed, discouraged, until an idea came to him. “But humans. They are good at finding other humans. Maybe they could find us someone that is more appropriate?” he inquired.

A series of muted thuds signaled the fall of yet another book stack before they could discuss it any further. “Oops. Sorry, books.” Apologized their daughter joyfully. Apparently, their daughter had snuck downstairs without any of them noticing, engrossed as they were in the conversation.

Sounds of exertion followed, proper of a nearly three years old trying to pick up after herself – a recurring occurrence for them, as they remained largely ignorant of how children really worked.

The angel sighed good naturedly, well used to her increasing bouts of clumsiness at that point. “Again, poppet?” he called out serenely.

“Hmm-hmm.” She acknowledged cheerfully, still struggling to lift one of the many books that had toppled over by the sounds of it. Visibly troubled, the angel wasted to time to rush to her side, throwing a distracted “I better go and make sure no further accidents happen.” over his shoulder as he went.

Mildly amused, Crowley stretched languorously before following after him, and was treated to the sight of a very ruffled angel trying not to show how much it rankled him to see his precious books on the ground as they were; he fretted over each one as he picked them up and returned them to their rightful places, all the while sending strained smiles reassuringly at Ariel to assure she had done nothing wrong. Their daughter stood a bit to the side, her denim overalls already stained with an array of colorful paint blotches, clutching an equally stained Mr. Snake to herself.

The ragdoll was an all-time favorite and had been hand-made by Lucien, who had used different leftover fabrics to make it at the last minute after Aziraphale had the delightful idea of announcing he was closing up to celebrate their daughter’s birthday nearly a year before. The garish thing sported two different sized, mismatched button eyes – coincidentally, a giant blue linen one and a small shank golden one –, barely showed any thickness difference between its head and body and an idiotic hot pink velvet tongue forever peeking out of its mouth; as much as Crowley had found it an insult, the angel had felt all the love poured into the thing and there had been no getting rid of it.

The demon couldn’t fathom why their goblin had gotten so attached to the ugly worm, just like he hadn’t understood her fascination with the cardboard box Aziraphale had eagerly brought over one day, ignoring the actual dollhouse that had been within.

With the book crisis finally averted and disaster on two legs successfully distracted with finger paint, the time came to make one of the most important decision one could make as a parent: who would get to take their offspring with them to deal with their respective errands.

“Well, it should be me, obviously. You had her all for yourself just the other day.” Aziraphale announced self-righteously, and the demon groaned. “C’mon angel, that was like, five minutes at most. Where’s your sense of fairness?” Crowley asked pointedly. The angel’s face fell.

“Well, one of us has to go without her.” The angel told him curtly. “What would you suggest, then?” A slim hand did a flourish, and a shiny pound materialized on it. He shot the serpent an incredulous look. “You cannot be suggesting-“

“Oh, but I am. Fair’s fair, after all.” The demon interrupted with an impish grin, waving the coin in his face – never mind that things weren’t ever exactly up to chance, when they were involved. “Tails or heads, oh husband of mine?” he asked, delighted at his annoyance.

The blonde entity spluttered – for the preposterousness of the whole thing, of course; it had nothing to do with any particular choice of words.

“Oh, if you must. Heads.” He said with a tut. Crowley launched the coin in a dramatic flip, and both watched expectantly as it spun around and around as it rose, exerting their will over it so it would land on their chosen side. As fate would have it, this time both wanted it in equal amounts, and the coin ended up falling to the floor and rolling away, until it was knocked over by a stray limb of an almost three years old.

The entities exchanged a fleeting glance and then lunged for the pound.

“Yesssssss!” the demon hissed as he pumped his fists triumphantly, and wasted no time in picking up Ariel to dance a strange jig that involved quick stomps and so many hip movements that a human wouldn’t be able to replicate it without dislocating something important. The child laughed and cheered as blonde and red curls bounced everywhere, patting excitedly at her mother’s chest and smudging clothes and neck with paint.

The angel, who had let out a deeply disappointed sigh at first, felt a tiny smile grow at the corners of his mouth. It was hard to feel too let down when facing and feeling his family’s joy, after all.


	4. Deal

After spending almost half an hour cajoling a stubborn almost three-year-old to only bring a couple of things with them, Crowley could finally slump onto the driver’s seat of his Bentley in relief.

The LEGO had stayed upstairs, thankfully – oh, how he hated those tiny plastic bricks and their tendency to be underfoot –, along with the finger paint and the weird, smelly, colored clay Ariel liked so much. Mr. Snake, much to his displeasure, had been a must, and he could see the ugly thing’s mocking stare in the rearview mirror. Its mismatched buttons mockingly informed the demon of just how weak he was to sad puppy eyes.

It was all the angel’s fault; he was sure of it.

Not willing to stand the smugness of the misshapen worm anymore, the entity adjusted the mirror so it focused on the left side, where the toddler had been strapped to her car seat. “All set, goblin?” He asked tiredly while he picked up the phone.

“Hm-hm.” Ariel nodded without looking up, too engrossed with a lion figurine – another of the toys allowed for the little trip.

“Nothing’s too tight or itchy?” The little girl shook her head. “Hungry? Thirsty?” the demon pressed. “Nu-uh.”

Momentarily satisfied with those, the demon brought the phone to his ear but, just as he was about to dial, he recalled the most important of questions. He lowered the phone to his miraculously clean chest to turn on his seat and pin her with a serious look. Feeling eyes on her, she peered up at him, curious.

“Did you remember to use the restroom before leaving?” He asked gravelly; at her enthusiastic nods, the demon let out a discreet sigh of relief.

Said relief had a swift death when Shadwell – or anyone, really – failed to pick up the phone three times in a row. The demon did his best to remain calm and collected, then dialed for the fourth time, only to let out a groan when only the dial tone was the there to greet him.

_Again_.

He sent an annoyed look upwards.

“Alright, if that’s how you want to do it.” He muttered through clenched teeth and, gripping tightly the wheel with one hand, the demon ignited the car.

An excited gasp brought his attention to Aziraphale leaving the bookshop.

“Daddy! Hi Daddy!” cried Ariel, twisting as she could in her seat to wave in his direction.

In normal circumstances, if the principality were a regular human being instead of an ethereal one crammed inside a human-shaped body, the tinted windows of the Bentley wouldn’t have let him see the animated toddler; however, being one, he was not bound by silly things such as the laws of physics, so he waved back just as enthusiastically before he disappeared into the morning crowd.

A disappointed whine soon followed, and Crowley had a very hard time not giving in to the urge to curse – for all that the angel bragged about reading innumerable volumes about child development, he remained largely oblivious to how children actually worked.

And, just like always, it was up to Crowley to do damage control.

“Say, goblin. Now that it’s just you and me… How about we play a little game?” He said casually.

The demon told himself very firmly he was just keeping away the pout because he was not in the mood to endure an unholy crying fit, but the little sniff that came after did uncomfortable things to his insides.

“A game?” The toddler wondered with a small voice.

“Yes. A game. A fun one.” Crowley revved the engine in anticipation to punctuate his words, a devilish smile slowly turning his lips upwards at the idea, and it only grew when he saw it mirrored on his little goblin’s face.

“What game?” She asked excitedly, blue eyes wide and earnest. The demon soaked up her attention like a sponge.

“How about… a little race?” More revs followed, and the Bentley jerked in place, just as eager to get going.

A sharp, wonder-filled intake of air was all the answer he needed.

“Alright! This is your captain speaking. You better hang onto your ears because this is going to be a wild ride!” exclaimed the demon, and then they were off, the long lines of the antique car cutting through the early London traffic like a hot knife does to butter, with the driver whooping like a madman and the sole passenger squealing in delight.

Something worth mentioning and that neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had really accounted for was that, when they agreed to raise a human newborn as their own, the two supernatural entities had changed the nature of said baby irrevocably.

After all, words have as much power as the belief behind them, and there is almost nothing more powerful than the belief of an angel, Fallen or not. As such, every time either of them reaffirmed their claim over her, every time they expected her to pick up everything from them, reality stretched just a little bit more, accommodating to the idea and resettling, until little Ariel didn’t quite fit in the category of “human being” anymore.

However, given that neither of them was exactly knowledgeable in children development, both assumed all growing humans were like her, and any weird occurrences that didn’t fly over their heads were attributed to their counterpart and not given as much thought as it should have warranted. Startlingly sharp intelligence, thrown away toys that returned to an outstretched, pudgy hand, water that turned into apple juice… all of them signs that should have hinted that _something_ was definitely happening but that were swiftly dismissed and, eventually, forgotten.

It wasn’t like the toddler in question was aware of things, either, as Ariel simply assumed, much like her parents, that she was just as she was supposed to be, and the few reality-altering powers she commanded were the norm.

That isn’t to say, however, that the toddler hadn’t become a bit confused by the differences between her parents and other people as of late.

“Mom?” she asked, looking expectantly at Crowley.

“Hm?” he hummed distractedly. He had since slowed down to circle around Shadwell’s usual haunts – but, much to the frustrated demon’s dismay, the man was nowhere to be seen.

Unbeknownst to him, his human agent was meeting with a certain angel at a posh restaurant, on the other side of the city, eating more than his fill with manners that would have earned him the proverbial boot in other circumstances.

“Where are their wings?”

The Bentley screeched to a halt in the middle of the road, coincidentally enough, at the precise moment elderly Mrs. Smith was beginning to cross it. The usually disgruntled lady made sure to incline her head in thanks to the kindly driver as she walked past with all the swiftness her old knees would allow – which wasn’t much, truth be told. The demon shuddered in disgust as her gratitude washed over him, but limited himself to giving a tight, toothy smile in return, too blindsided by the sudden question to react properly demonic.

Unprepared as he was for the subject, he decided that stalling was as good a tactic as any. “Wings? What do you mean, wings?”

In hindsight, Crowley realized, they had been so busy planning to prevent the End and other, much more pressing parenting matters, they hadn’t discussed what they’d be telling their human kid about, well, _anything_. Not that they had hid their non-humanity from her, either, but that was beside the point.

“Like yours.” Ariel said, directing clear blue eyes towards the place where, in another plane, raven black wings impossibly fit in the insides of the Bentley. “And daddy’s.”

Her dad’s wings were really pretty, even with all the dust they gathered from being inside the shop all day. “I want mine to look just like his, but shiny, like yours-” She gushed, only for a juice box to materialize in her previously unoccupied hands and a straw to slither its way into her lips. The tart flavor of apple juice flooded her taste buds, and she hummed contentedly, wiggling in her seat with delight, the conversation completely forgotten.

With the kid successfully distracted, Crowley was able to give free reign to his panic in the form of tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, mind struggling to come up with something to tell her without it having the potential of ending up in waterworks from either of the parties involved.

He needed a drink. Or Aziraphale. Possibly both.

Since the elderly Mrs. Smith had yet to reach the middle of the road, all the demon could do was glare at her shuffling form until reality bent to his will and deposited the woman on the other side, a bit confused but otherwise intact. With the way clear at last, he was finally free to go.

However, he had been asked a question, and he would be _blessed_ if he didn’t even try to answer it, no matter how bloody hard it was.

“Well. Erm.” His tongue refused to cooperate after that, producing a hissing sound that would be difficult to reproduce to anyone else who wasn’t, at least, part snake. “Wings, wingsss.” He started, as if tasting the word. “Angels have wings. Some demons have wings.” All of the original Fallen had had them at some point, but that really wasn’t something he wanted to share with his goblin. “Humans…. Humans don’t have wings.” He finished lamely, and when all the reply he got was a distracted hum, he took his eyes from the road to peek at Ariel from the rearview mirror.

So young, so bright, so _fleeting_… and so incredibly dense, because the cretin had the gall to not pay attention to him after dropping such a bomb, looking out the window as she sipped juice. The demon pursed his lips and reminded himself that kids had a short attention span.

Even if, deep down, a little, petty part of him thought she was somehow doing it on purpose.

A full minute went by like that, with the serpent silently fuming and the child God-only-knows-where, until Ariel returned to Earth and met his expectant gaze in the mirror.

“Mom?”

Crowley sighed and pursed his lips, steeling himself before meeting her urgent gaze in the mirror – here it came, The Question, where he’d have to admit he hadn’t really delivered her in the Bentley all on his own like he always complained about when the angel was being particularly stubborn and people were within earshot.

“I got to pee.”

* * *

Grace Maeve Tracy, more commonly known as Madame Tracy, had been having a pretty normal morning up until that point. On her way to buy groceries, many a man had skittishly not met her gaze, while other, more gullible clientele had asked how the veils were feeling that day. The butcher had tried to sell her some sad-looking and probably well past its prime cuts instead of the nice, lively liver she had purchased for dinner, and a proper, married woman had almost broken one of her heels in her haste to get away from her as she was walking past her, as if her choice of career were a highly contagious disease.

She could have been like that woman once, and perhaps she had been a long time ago, when she was a young and foolish girl with a heart easy to please and even easier to win. Or maybe her eyes had looked upon bachelors like one might do over available houses for rent, instead, weighting their pros and cons against each other, cold and calculating.

It is also possible that she had always been a headstrong, self-governing woman, too, unwilling to bend to society’s demands and eager to carve a path of her own out of sheer stubbornness.

No matter how it had started, Grace had moved to London looking for a better life, carrying only the clothes on her back and, as they say, the rest is history. She may have done things her mother wouldn’t be proud of, but it hadn’t hurt anybody. If anything, she was smart, and careful saving had allowed her to buy a modest house in the town outskirts all of her own, where she could carry on her business in peace.

Why, she even had Mr. Shadwell to keep her company, no matter how much he barked about his witchy nonsense or how late he ran with rent. I wasn’t like she had the heart to send him out in the cold, really, and he was a decent man, if a bit misguided. Grace was a firm believer that outcasts should help each other out, and if all she could do was turn a blind eye to his delays and offer a warm meal every now and again, then by God she would do it.

Nobody else was going to, otherwise.

The first sign that something was amiss was a pristine vintage car zipping past at speeds that were way over the city limit – and were those bullet holes? Grace would have been content to file the occurrence away as a generic yet bewildered “the mob is on the move” and conveniently forget about it, had it not been that, no less than five minutes later, the very same dark vintage car was parked rather badly in front of her flat.

The second sign that foretold a change in her life came in the form of a tall, thin man dressed in black, who was furiously knocking on her door. Once everything was said and done and Grace was left alone to mull over the strange turn her life had taken, she would feel a bit ashamed of her instinctive assumption that Shadwell had finally crossed a line and angered someone important. At the moment, however, it was what made the most sense, since the stranger was shouting his name over and over, demanding for him to open up the door.

The greying redhaired woman readied herself to gather intel for her tenant, primping herself and rearranging her clothes as best as she could in the middle of the street, then swayed onwards with all the elegance she could manage with the groceries’ in tow. Just as she was about to croon a greeting, however, she discovered that the stranger was not as alone as she had first thought.

“I gotta go, I gotta go, I gotta go-“ chanted the toddler held under his arm, over and over. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and her cherubic, round cheeks were flush with effort.

If you asked Grace what happened next, she would be hard pressed to determine precisely the sequence of events, because it seemed that one second, she was greeting the pair with a friendly “Hullo”, and the next they were all inside, groceries already put away. Grace sat down on her sofa in a daze, facing the auburn-haired man that waited impatiently by the doorway for the little girl to use the restroom – the fact that a toddler was left to her own devices in her restroom was but a fleeting afterthought, and the vague strangeness she felt soon vanished in the face of the man’s utter dismissal of his host.

The woman felt vaguely insulted, but prudence won in the end.

“So, how do you know Mr. Shadwell, Mister…?” She trailed off with one of her most charming smiles to dispel the awkwardness that permeated the air, but the man simply tilted his head at the question and remained eerily silent. Grace was under the strange impression he had yet to blink, but there was no way to know, as he had yet to take off his sunglasses.

She had the feeling it was relevant, somehow, but for the life of her, she couldn’t quite remember why.

“Crowley.” he said gruffly at last, and recognition washed over her at last – he was one of the gentlemen that had hired Shadwell as an informant of sorts, if she had understood things right. He did say the man was a bit peculiar, if she recalled right.

“Oh, so you’re Mr. Crowley! It’s so nice to make your acquaintance.” She said pleasantly. “What there something you needed with Mr. Shadwell? I can pass is along.”

“Hmm, really?” He drawled with another head tilt, then slowly, deliberately, reached inside his blazer.

For a few, long seconds, Grace Maeve Tracy thought that she had made a grave mistake, but then something white intruded in her field of vision.

The woman blinked stupidly at it, until it registered that it was a paper sheet. She reached for it with trembling hands, and the man returned to his previous position with an enviable ease.

Grace’s still panic-laden brain struggled to make sense of the elegant calligraphy.

“Nanny wanted…?” She asked, perplexed.

There was a distant sound of rushing water, and Mr. Crowley craned his neck, presumably to check the restroom, but no toddler came out.

“My… spouse and I are going to be very busy soon, but we’re having some difficulties finding someone appropriate to watch over our daughter.” Well, that explained the child, more or less – usually men weren’t very interested in taking an active parenting role with kids, and much less one so young. “I was hoping the Lance Corporal would help us narrow it down.” He finished with a strained smile that involved way too many teeth.

Grace, who still hadn’t managed to decode the artful swirls except the offered payment – which was _quite_ the sum indeed –, nodded in understanding. Mr. Shadwell didn’t know what the man did, exactly, but he had quietly admitted to her once, in a rare show of discretion, that he suspected mafia. It would make sense, if that was the case, that not just anybody would meet the requirements.

Her eyes fixed on the offered sum, and she could already feel the cogs in her brain turning, weighting it against what she could earn on the best of days.

“Well, if it is so pressing… I could watch over her,” The slim man turned his attention towards her “at least until you find someone else. I have a lot of free time, and I’m very trustworthy,” she stressed hurriedly “you can ask Mr. Shadwell.”

She had to admit, all that sudden attention was a bit intimidating, Grace had to grapple with the inexplicable apprehension it inspired. “And what do you do, Shadwell’s friend, to have so much free time.”

“Oh, I’m-I’m a medium.” she lied through her teeth with her most charming smile. It was a tiny lie, and if things went according to plan that’d be all she would be, from then on.

“A medium? Really?” he asked amusedly.

Her first reaction was to recite her rehearsed ‘do not mock the spirits beyond the Veil’, but then remembered who she was talking to. “Well, if people are stupid enough to believe the dead don’t have better things than to hang around waiting for us to call on them, then it’s not really my fault if I do a little bit of theatrics for their money, is it?”

The man actually snorted at that, so she counted it as a win.

“Alright. You’ve convinced me.” He approached her again, and stretched his arm – when Tracy shook his hand, she was dimly aware that _something_ had just transpired between the two of them for a few seconds, until the sensation went as quickly as it had come.

She stared confusedly at the man’s shades, hearing the sound of rushing water yet again.

“We’ll be in touch.” The man said curtly, then stalked with purpose towards the restroom, grumbling all the while. He knocked sharply on the door.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun, now wash your hands and come out.” He instructed.

The door opened moments later, and the toddler peeked out, blue eyes bright with realized mischief.

“Hi, mom!” She greeted cheerfully. Grace thought, at first, that the toddler had referred to her, but the little girl had clearly been looking towards her father, hadn’t she?

“Did you wash your hands?” Mr. Crowley insisted, rolling with the slip up.

“Yes!” declared the toddler confidently, even though there hadn’t been time for it. The man knelt and sniffed a proffered hand from a distance. “No, you didn’t! Bad goblin, you don’t lie to me, remember? Now go wash.”

It was clear that he was used to it. Grace thought it was rather sweet, how the otherwise terse man was such a good parent; it showed how one should never judge a book by its cover.

However, nothing could have prepared her to what she heard next.

“Mom,” said the toddler “Is she your mom?”

Mr. Crowley spluttered with what Grace assumed was righteous indignation, but then he asked “What makes you ask that, now?”

“She has red hair, and we came to visit an old friend, and moms are friends… and she’s old.”

“They are?” He asked, amused, but then muttered “Well, I’m not on good terms with mine.”

“Why?” the toddler wondered.

“Grown up stuff.” He replied hurriedly, with the edge of someone who wasn’t enjoying the matter at hand, but then sighed “Best ask your father that one.”

Those tired words were the final pieces to the puzzle in Grace’s mind – it wasn’t that they had trouble picking someone to babysit, it was that nobody wanted to work for _them_.

Grace didn’t have strong opinions in favor or against of queer people – they were, at the end of the day, just like her, outcasts, with their own wants, needs and dreams. And right then, two outcasts needed someone to watch over their daughter while they made ends meet.

Well, they had already shaken hands on it, right? It wasn’t like she could just… decline.

Mr. Crowley tensed when he noticed she was there, as if he had suddenly taken notice of just how much information he had disclosed within her earshot. She smiled at him to let him know everything was fine, to no visible effect.

Clear blue eyes settled on her, and Tracy thought right then was as good a moment as any to introduce herself.

“Hullo, love. I’m afraid I’m nobody’s mom.” At least, not in that context, but she wasn’t going to tell a kid that. “I was thinking. I find myself with lots of free time lately,” She winked at Mr. Crowley, who’s frown may or may not have deepened “and I think I wouldn’t mind a visit from time to time. It gets terribly boring in here, sometimes.” The child squinted at her, from the top of her curly hair to her well-worn shoes, her face was contorting in an alarming scowl.

“I’m sure we can find something fun to do. Do you, perhaps, like painting?” She asked, and the little girl looked at her with open wonder as she nodded.

“How did you know?” She whispered, amazed.

“Ah. I’m a medium, I know things.” She said solemnly.

If Grace had been a more honest person, she may have felt a little bit bad for taking advantage of the toddler, whose clothes advertised her love for paint to the whole world in the form of a rainbow of stains. If anything, declaring herself a medium had made her even more awestruck – even if, the woman was sure, the toddler didn’t even know what a medium was.

“We can visit, can’t we mom?” She asked, uncertain, as she pulled on his sleeve.

“Oh, I don’t know.” replied her parent, too dubious to be real. “We have to ask your father first. I’m not sure he’d agree, though.” The child gasped in horror, as was appropriate for the situation, surely.

“We could… I don’t know, we could try to convince him?” Blonde curls bounced with the fervor of her nodding, and Grace was amazed by how well Mr.- Mrs.? Crowley was pulling her strings.

“Leave it to me, then. I’ll tell him in a way he can’t refuse. Okay?” He finished with pursed lips.

The child looked at her parent, contemplating, a confused frown making a brief appearance before it disappeared – it was as if she was aware there was a trick involved, but didn’t know _where_.

“’Kay.” She finally agreed.

Hook, line, and sinker.


End file.
